The Stories Our Scars May Tell
by Jean Hicks
Summary: On a hot afternoon, John does a little exploring of Sherlock's past by mapping the scars on his body. Established John/Sherlock relationship, some talk of violence but nothing graphic, mentions of Sherlock's past drug use. As a result, rated T to be safe. No spoilers for the series... it is fluffy though! :-) Read, review, and enjoy! Note: Un-beta-ed, so please ignore any errors?


**AN:** I've been sick with a upper-respiratory thing, and killing time before classes start again... so here's more (established) Johnlock fluff! I hope I haven't made Sherlock _too_ out of character. If this one is enjoyed, I'm planning to write a sister piece where Sherlock gets to do a little exploring of his own. :-) Thank you all immensely for the reviews and following you have done so far. It means a hell of a lot to me! As for this story, please read and review, and as always, enjoy the ride!

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"Start with this one…" John ran his finger along a set of silver lines on Sherlock's ankle. Sherlock flexed his foot underneath the touch and chuckled. It was a hot day, and they lacked any interesting cases. To keep Sherlock from throwing a fit or damaging more walls in the flat, John had suggested a morning in Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens. When they returned after lunch, Sherlock headed to the shower while John fixed a cup of tea. John had entered the steaming shower as Sherlock vacated it.

Now Sherlock lay sprawled on the bed in only his simple black cloth pants, sedated by the heat of the afternoon. John hovered over his lover; his finger's running across the various scars on his body. They were still new enough to each other that John wanted to know every story behind the marks that dotted Sherlock's porcelain skin. He traced the silver lines again.

Sherlock's voice was breathy and almost sleepy. "Dog bite. University… it was a bull terrier if I remember correctly. Bastard laid me out for ten days."

"Ten days, for a dog bite?" John asked incredulously.

"I may have… exaggerated… a bit to suit my own needs." He looked at John with smiling eyes. John just shook his head.

"And this one?" He traced his finger tip up Sherlock's left leg and circled his knee. A puckered white line cut across his knee cap and down his calf. "It looks painful."

"Pain is mostly in the mind, John. I had a tussle with a suspect, he slashed me. Instructions not to run on it for a while, but I ended up chasing the bastard across the Tower Bridge two days later. I'm told that's why it scarred as badly as it did."

"Impatient!" John scolded. He ghosted his hands across the slender man's thighs and, against Sherlock's intentions, his hips moved towards John's seeking hand. John laughed and clicked hid tongue again. "Impatient man."

Sherlock just laughed his deep laugh and John continued his patient search of the body before him. The doctor was about to pass over Sherlock's pants when the detective stopped his hand. "You missed one," He took John's hand and ran it along the sparse hair dark hair of his inner thigh. "Three dots, close together."

"I feel it, yes." John felt each raised scar with his calloused fingers. Sherlock shuddered against the touch.

"Mycroft stabbed me with a fork when we were children." He laughed. "I tried to steal his cake, and so he stabbed me in the thigh. He felt guilty about it for days…"

John lay back on the bed with the force of his laughter. "Are you serious?" Sherlock smiled a full smile and his chocolate voice joined in with John's continuing peals of laughter.

"Mycroft _has_ always loved his sweets."

After a moment, John continued his slow ascent up Sherlock's body. He ran his hands across Sherlock's pale stomach, feeling the muscles ripple underneath. When he stopped at a scar, Sherlock would provide an explanation. Usually they were from small accidents or incidents with suspects. John examined each one thoroughly and memorized its feel under his fingertips.

John moved one hand down Sherlock's shoulder; the detective almost purred underneath his touch. "You know, we could really move on to the more exciting aspect of this experiment." Sherlock hissed as John's other hand circled his pectoral muscle. John shook his head.

"No rushing today, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock's breathing increased and his muscles tensed as John traced his bicep. "Don't tense up, Sherlock…" He soothed his partner. "It's all right." The doctor ran his fingers over several thick, ropy scars in the crook of Sherlock's elbow. There was a matching set on the other side.

"You know where those are from." The detective's voice was now rough with something other than lust.

"I want you to tell me." This was a portion of Sherlock's life they had yet to discuss.

Sherlock swallowed. John watched his Adam's apple bob up and down. He kept a steady rhythm on the scars in question, trying to soothe with his fingers. He wanted to show Sherlock he had nothing to fear, even though he was clearly in a heightened state of worry. The curly haired man turned and met John's eyes. He toyed with his lip.

"The drugs." He spat out finally, eyes never leaving John's. "Cocaine. An abundance of cocaine. I needed… distraction." He sighed.

John massaged the spot. "It's okay, love." He whispered. He strained to answer quietly and not throw Sherlock off. He had been exceptionally patient and open so far, and John did not want that to end just yet. He moved from the track marks on Sherlock's elbows to his lower arms. He was about to spend a lot of time on Sherlock's long, nimble fingers but he was distracted by something else.

Sherlock had his soft arms turned over and the sunlight from the window spilled over the bed. A long line that would have normally been difficult to see shone in the light. John caught Sherlock's wrist and ran his fingers over the lines. "John…" Sherlock hissed. "Don't."

"What are these, Sherlock?" He was not going to let this go. The doctor knew exactly what this was.

"You're not a stupid man, John."

"Yes, well, pretend I was." He sat up, abandoning his position stretched against Sherlock's side for one where he could look in the man's eyes. Sherlock matched John's movement. He kept his wrist cradled in John's hands, though he flexed his fingers impatiently.

"After the drugs…" He sighed, paused, looked away. "Is it really important?"

"Yes, Sherlock. It is very important."

"After my third OD, Mycroft had me moved to his house." He flexed his hand again and almost smirked. "I told him I wanted the drugs."

"And he said no, I assume." John ran his finger over the line.

"Of course. He said," Sherlock raised his voice in a perfect imitation of his brother. "Sherlock, the drugs will kill you. I won't let you do that to yourself."

The doctor smiled but it fell quick as he refocused on Sherlock's scar. Sherlock looked away. "I told him if I really wanted to kill myself I could do it anywhere. I picked up his letter opener and… next thing you know…" He motioned across his wrist. "I bled all over Mycroft's carpet, took him weeks to clean it out. The doctor said I was lucky to not lose any dexterity. Obviously, if I had cut into a tendon I would have never been able to play violin again. My hands are my gift… and I had put them at risk."

Though it was the answer he expected, John still let out a small breath. "This is what I do." Sherlock growled at John, his voice darker than it was moments earlier. "If there are things I want, I take them, John, and when I cannot have them, or when they are taken away from me, I do not react well." He tore his wrist away and folded into himself.

From the ball that Sherlock Holmes had become, he whispered. "I will _consume_ you." His sea foam eyes met green. "And when the thing I need is gone, when _you_ are gone, because you will always eventually be gone… I will consume myself." The detective looked away, ashamed.

John was silent for only a moment, contemplating what to say. They had been together since day one, in some since, but together like _this_ was still a relatively new thing. He didn't want to muck it up with misplaced proclamations, but if he was reading Sherlock right, the man had just made a major proclamation of his own.

"Sherlock." He placed a calloused hand against the detective's cheek. "Please look at me."

Like a child who was prepared to be scolded, Sherlock raised his eyes. Oh this man, this infernal man. His moods changed as swiftly as the wind. In the course of an hour he had gone from flirtatious to sullen to whatever this was at the moment. John guessed it was primarily insecurity.

"You're right." He spoke plainly. "You don't do well when things are taken from you, or when you're bored. Your moods are difficult at times, and you have tendency towards the dramatic." The doctor gently worked his other hand across Sherlock's limbs and unfolded him. He took it as a good sign that Sherlock didn't struggle as John pulled him forward into his chest.

"But you are wrong, about one thing, you brilliant man…" John sighed and ran a hand through the curly dark hair. Sherlock was beginning to purr with contentment again. "I am not one for stop-and-go relationships anymore. If that's what you're worried about, that I will always leave again… you can stop that thought right there. I may not be a genius but I know a few things, and I know this isn't a passing feeling."

He punctuated the statement with a soft kiss. Their eyes stayed locked after they broke away.

"Imagine I've gone and ruined the mood, haven't I?" John gave his lover a sheepish grin, and the grin was returned, much to John's relief.

"No, Dr. Watson…" Sherlock's voice was now laced with lust again. "I imagine that your little experiment in honesty and openness will prove to have been very… effective…"

Their lips met with more intensity. When they had to breathe, John chuckled softly, his hands on either side of Sherlock's head. He smiled. "And I can assure you… I find I rather like the thought of being consumed by the great Sherlock Holmes."


End file.
